


rivers of ash

by shineburn



Series: like a fire to a world so cold [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anti-Hero, Dark Fantasy, Drama, F/M, Female Anti-Hero, Grief/Mourning, Morrowind, Multi, Other, Politics, Social Commentary, Tamriel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-05-23 12:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6116488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineburn/pseuds/shineburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colourful beads and feathers shimmered in the Ashlander woman's hair, chitin armour resplendent with carved symbols for all her achievements and all the enemies she had single-handedly slain in battle. Like the Ashen Vanguard, the warrior saluted with fist over heart, intricate braids swaying with the motion. It was something in her grim, shadow-rimmed eyes that instantly made the Nerevarine <i><b>know</b></i> what she would hear, even before the accursed words came out. Like a knife taken to what was left of her beating heart.</p><p>“Farseer and Nerevarine, to whose wisdom we all submit ourselves. I am Yaras-Tul, Clanholder of the <i>Ash-Walkers.</i> The great Ashkhan, may his name and honour live on forever, has drawn his last breath.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part the first

**Author's Note:**

> This thing came about due to my frustration with Bethesda and their shit excuse to remove the Nerevarine from all future events, called _'going on an expedition to Akavir, a plot-point that came straight out of Bloody Fucking Nowhere.'_ A Nerevarine with no true ties to Morrowind and a desire for further adventure I can see in that situation. But someone with political and military savvy, someone reforged in the heart of the Ashlands, someone who had come to generally love the Dunmer people, someone who could believably _Mantle Indoril Nerevar?_
> 
> It's a collection of stories set all over the timeline, from the beginning of Morrowind to, in this case, the start of Skyrim's plot. As such, they run the gamut from standard action/adventure fare to some romance, some drama, some cultural misunderstandings and, as seen here, theological debates and cutthroat politics. Just because Morrowind had the Nerevarine's support during the Oblivion Crisis and the Red Year does not a rainbows-and-sunshine situation make. Particularly when said Nerevarine is very specific about how things should be done.
> 
> No connection between _this_ Potema and the infamous Wolf Queen, just her father's idea of a cruel joke that hit a little bit too close to the truth.

_‘High King Torygg of Skyrim is dead. Murdered in his own throne room.’_

The words kept repeating themselves in her head. Like a half-mad little ditty, as if the next repetition and then the next would somehow lessen their blow.

_‘High King Torygg of Skyrim is dead.’_ Easy enough to understand and take in. _‘Murdered in his own throne room.’_ Less so to accept the consequences of this one act of murder. Yet accept, anticipate and counter them she would have to, for the sake of her people. The duties of rulership would not flee to the four corners of the world, simply because a fool of a Nord had placed his head on a platter for Ulfric Stormcloak to claim.

Potema grit her teeth, marching down the corridor at a steady clip. Thinking of the Jarl of Windhelm and his ill-advised rebellion was enough to darken her mood all by itself.

_‘High King Torygg of Skyrim is dead. Murdered in his own throne room.’_

Damn that man straight to _Oblivion_ for getting himself killed!

Slapping a calloused hand on the rough stone-and-sculpted-shell bannister, Potema stopped in place. Taking slow, measured breaths, she worked at reining in her temper. Not even the predictable assassination attempts were enough to unsettle her these days. Yet the urgent report from Skyrim had managed to do so. The world was falling apart, in a way that would one day make the Red Year look like a child’s play with sky-flares. And there was little she could do about it, save for keeping Morrowind united beneath the Grand Council.

Surveying the expanse of Baan Malur, Potema Augusta Kaushibael, Nerevarine and First Councilor of Morrowind, set to thinking things through. Only the foolish and the self-assured jumped into a pit head-first, with little thought for price and consequence. And only the deluded closed their eyes and pretended that doom and disaster could not strike at a whim.

All around Potema, the Ashen Vanguard had arranged themselves so they could watch the open-air corridor from all sides. One of the mages held a ward between stone bannister and sloping, shell-shaped roof. It made the air shimmer and Potema knew from experience that it would deflect anything up to a medium-weight crossbow bolt. It was a taxing spell and the grim-faced Breton woman casting it wouldn’t be able to hold it for more than one hour. No matter. One hour was enough to put her thoughts in order here, in the cold afternoon sun. Some remnant of her youthful impulsiveness almost had Potema order the ward extinguished. But it was a dead remnant. The Ashen Vanguard would obey her every order, even if it meant driving weapons into their own hearts.

“What have I wrought, my old friend?” She mouthed the words, looking down at the ring on the middle finger of her right hand. Potema wasn't certain if she spoke to the dead spectre of Dumac Dwarfking, Vivec or Voryn Dagoth. Or perhaps to all of them. It hardly mattered. To what hellish Outer Realm Dumac had been banished she knew not and both Vehk and Voryn were long past hearing the living. Moon-and-Star glinted in the ruddy light, yet it brought Potema a cold sort of comfort. _‘Take what you can and pay later’,_ Caius had advised shortly before his departure and there had been bitter truth to his words. For her audacity and her ambition and the unrelenting spirit that had lead Potema into walking the steps of a long-dead Chimeri warlord and making him walk as her in turn, she was still paying.

A shadow moved, right at the edge of her eyesight. And Potema moved in turn. The hand that had been resting on Trueflame’s hilt drew the enchanted weapon in half a heartbeat. Potema spun on her heel, bending shoulders and hips and knees, using the momentum of the turn to her advantage. The dagger – poisoned, they were always poisoned – flew over her head, a hair’s width above her skin. A hair’s width that was as unfortunate a distance as a fjord, as far as her would-be assassin was concerned. Still turning, Potema swung Trueflame in a two-handed ascending arc, one knee hitting the floor. The flame-coated blade took her attacker in the chest. It sliced a boiling line up to his left shoulder, splitting open cloth and skin and muscle and the white bone of ribs. Like a knife slicing through warm curds.

Her guards were too disciplined and well-trained to lose themselves in pandemonium at assassins in their midst. Instead, Farvyn Velothril moved at the same time as Potema, curved short-sword taking the hapless killer’s head right off. Shadows at Potema’s back and left fell in the same moment. One of them took a fireball right to the face, the smell of burning flesh filling the corridor. Another collapsed with a throwing knife in his throat, only to be stabbed through the heart even before he hit the floor.

“Search the corridor for more of them!” No time to hesitate or falter. Potema’s voice cracked through the air like a whip and several of her guards saluted with fists over hearts, before loping down the walkway. They all knew what to do in moments such as this. It had been trained in them until it became as natural as a babe suckling at its mother’s teat. However, they had to hear her voice, hear the cold, unflinching resolve there and know that she was unharmed under their watch.

“Honoured One?”

Farvyn Velothril was looking at her with a red gaze, worry etched on his ash-dark features, voice as rough as two stones grinding together. And in the next breath, the Dunmer lowered his eyes, unable to meet Potema’s own any longer.

“This filth made you draw your weapon under our watch, Honoured One. We are shamed forever in your eyes and those of our ancestors.”

Allowing a small, genuine smile on the grimness of her own face, Potema reached out a hand, grasping Farvyn’s shoulder. The hand where Moon-and-Star still glinted. The significance wasn’t at all lost to the Dunmer man, who jerked his head back up, eyes wide, before swelling with pure pride at the touch. He looked at her with nothing but love and devotion. They all looked at her in such a way, once her eyes met each of theirs in turn. Love and devotion to the hand that had forged them, the hand that wielded, guided and sheltered them.

“I am well, Farvyn. And it was the bravery and quick thinking of the Ashen Vanguard that ensured this outcome. It will take more than a few motherless fetchers under Dark Brotherhood colours to strike me down with all of you by my side.” _‘And even on the day that a poisoned dagger does find my lifeblood, I will make certain that what I build can endure and live on.’_ But such words she did not say, settling for proud smiles and nods, making the recipients stand even straighter, the devotion in their eyes fanned into open flames.

_‘What have I wrought? What I needed to. Living weapons of flesh and blood and spirit, among the strongest_ Tamriel _has ever known. And if I fail in this gambit of mine, the world will need every single one of_ these _who call themselves the Ashen Vanguard.’_

“Do you know, Monette, why Vvardenfell was made?” Potema spoke with razor-sharp precision, as if an attempt on her life hadn’t taken place mere moments earlier. Not giving the bodies and the blood pooling on the stone floor even a passing glance, she leaned on the railing yet again. Benighted fools with all the intelligence of malformed scribs. They should have tried taking her out from the distance again. They would have had more of a chance.

“Vvardenfell and the sea of ash were made by the gods to test and baptise the faithful, Honoured One”. Monette Beluelle, the short, hard-faced Breton mage answered without a hint of hesitation. She spoke with the same conviction as Dunmer born of Morrowind and none here among the Ashen Vanguard would scoff or call her a parvenu for it. Not when they had all been raised from early childhood together, noble and commoner, Great House retainer and Ashlander, Dunmer and outlander, man and woman, taking in the lessons of duty and honour and sacrifice as early as they could walk. All had been born on the soil of ancient Resdayn, regardless of where their sires had come from. “We walk the ash-wastes and are transformed for it. We endure the killing storms and let them scour away weakness, so we may be born anew.”

_‘As I once was, so very long ago.’_

“And would you have the same lessons visited on those you are pledged to serve?”

Monette hesitated. This was no question to which a quick, rote answer would suffice. Nor was this meant to be religious instruction. She knew the Ashen Vanguard were all aware of the difference, even if they usually could not tell where Potema Augusta Varro ended and Nerevar Incarnate began. Potema could not fault them for that, not when she had never been able to set any line of separation herself. Not that she had cared to. Mantling was soul-changing as it was, without making herself unstable with ill-advised attempts at clinging to the past.

“I would have them be strong in the face of the storm, Honoured One. We will be of little use if they cower and bow their heads like beasts of burden when strength is needed.”

Not that such was a pressing worry. Not with the survivors of Morrowind, those who had lived through the horrors of Oblivion and the Red Year and slaughter at the hands of the An-Xileel. To a one, they had been harrowed down to the bone.

“Well-spoken. Morrowind will stand strong. Yet that does not mean we will throw caution to the wind and set ourselves to fighting battles we cannot win.”

Monette bowed her head and murmured apologies for her presumption, eyes lowered. Potema took away some of the sting by reaching out and touching the woman’s short, already greying hair. All around, Ashen Vanguard whispered assent, bowing their heads in turn, as Potema turned her eyes back to Baan Malur in the sunset. The great capital of Morrowind stretched out in all directions from the Rootspire, nestled in a great valley of the Velothi mountains. Jagged peaks rose to the west and the east. The snow-capped mountains blocked her view of Vvardenfell and Red Mountain, yet Potema could have pointed to it even in the dark, with her eyes closed. A spark of divine essence, of what had been the heart of a God, still lived in her, through Corprus, thrumming in time to her own heartbeat. It lived on even with her destruction of the Red Tower. Counsel these warriors as she might against fighting impossible odds, yet Potema knew that such a thing would be inevitable one day. It was all a question of careful preparation and managing risk and how many would be left standing in the end. As many as could be saved, but never _enough_.

As for her, the Nerevarine knew where her path was headed. It all else failed and no other choice was left, she would set the world aflame and use her own soul as kindling. No price was too great for the annihilation of the Thalmor and their singularly monstrous plans.

“Do you know the importance of the Towers, Ashibaal?”

The tall, heavily-scarred Ashlander man gave a sharp nod at this, beads and bone fetishes clinking in his braided hair. They were all symbols of his origin, even if his oaths to the Nerevarine now superseded all notion of clan loyalty.

“They secure the world and our existence as we are now, Honoured One. They seal shut the jaws of Oblivion and maintain the work of Lorkhan the Dead God. All so the faithful might be tested and challenged by mortality into one day defeating and transcending it.”  
  
Potema nodded, still looking at the mountains. A very _Dunmer_ sort of answer, true to Velothi teachings down to the core. And one she had always liked. Not the unquestioning devotion to mortality that too many of the race of Men showed. Yet also not the horrific grasping and clawing for divinity of the Altmer, that would unmake Creation itself. The mad bastards would one day destroy all of the Towers keeping Mundus and Oblivion separate. And in so doing, regain their much-coveted divinity, at unspeakable cost to everyone else. And Indoril Nerevar Incarnate had given them a helping hand when she had banished the Heart of Lorkhan, breaking the Red Tower in the process. It was such a bleak thing as to make almost anyone weep and gnash teeth in despair… yet in what way would that help? Histrionics and wishing for better were useless things. What concerned Potema was the world _as it was_ and what could be done to it, not _as it should have been._

“And the reason we live?”

“Our lives are as blades for the hearts of those who threaten holy Resdayn or the work of the Dead God, Honoured One.”

As one, the members of the Ashen Vanguard thumped fists to chests once more, eyes blazing. Like her, they would walk through hell itself if it meant ultimate success for their cause. But unlike her warriors, Potema could not afford the luxury of having someone else make the difficult decisions for her.

During her childhood in Cyrodiil, a lifetime ago, Potema had attended the spectacle of a travelling circus. And in her memory was seared the elegant and efficient economy of movement that a woman had shown on the high-wire. Sure-footed and unafraid, she had danced and twirled a hundred hand-spans above them all. She had not faltered, though any wrong step meant certain death, juggling nine colourful balls and spinning on her heel. Potema felt much the same way now. A high-wire artist, in a position where doing nothing would mean death, yet where acting would bring about the same thing. An artist juggling so many balls at the same time that it was a miracle she could still keep track of them all. And unlike that woman from long ago, Potema had to do it while the ghosts of old regrets nipped at her heels.

And yet she would endure. It was simple. What could not be changed had to be endured.

Counting in her head, Potema started reviewing her options and planning her next steps. Skyrim first. The bloody province was going straight to Oblivion in a breadbasket. Skyrim as a peaceful, economically prosperous and politically functional entity had been essential for the stability of the Empire in the north. It had also been essential for the large swathes of borderland it shared with Morrowind and the number of Dunmer refugees the nation had taken in over the years. It mattered for very little that the Nords would as soon rip out their hearts and eat them than join the Thalmor in their mad crusade. By fighting for a break with the Empire, even a pale shadow as it was, they were only building on fragmentation that the Aldmeri Dominion overlords looked upon with pleasure. After all, it would be far easier for the Altmer and their minions to pluck prone nations one by one, rather than risk another protracted war with a strong, united Empire.

“Why do we still hold to the Armistice, Farvyn?”

“The Empire of White-Gold is necessary as a bulwark against the Thalmor and their accursed machinations, Honoured One. We are brave and strong, the blood and soul of Resdayn, yet we also know how to be careful and patient and cunning, as Boethiah once taught us. The Thalmor are strong and have numbers on their side, so we will need numbers as well.”

Skyrim. She should have been paying more attention to the land of her ancestors. She should’ve had that rabid dog of Windhelm put down as soon as it became clear that his charisma and his ambition and his bitterness toward Cyrodiil would be a problem–

_No._

No. Assassinating Ulfric Stormcloak would have done little to change the course of things. He was but one man, whereas Skyrim’s righteous fury ran much deeper and wider. Another with similar gifts, including the thu’um, would have risen by necessity and popular desire. Even finding some way of keeping Torygg alive might not have helped much. If every report could be taken at face-value, High King Torygg had been sympathetic to Ulfric’s demands for a sovereign nation. Enough that he might have even proclaimed Skyrim’s independence, had the Jarl of Windhelm come to him in peace, with convincing words. Potema wasn’t certain which was the more disastrous option. A unified Skyrim making a sharp break with the Empire or the infighting currently tearing the province apart. Both situations were net gains for the Thalmor, in any case.

The land of her fore-mothers was a lost cause for now. Or not. She had enough agents to keep watch over the important players, particularly in Windhelm. As did almost every Great House on the bloody Council. And even though Potema had entertained and then dismissed the idea of killing Stormcloak, the same notion and far less common-sense could occur to someone else. Telvanni had no agents in Skyrim, of that she was certain. Redoran made official denials, yet their honour was coloured by a heavy dose of pragmatism, the same as her own. Indoril… difficult to tell at present, something she would have to look further into. Dres and Sadras had people on the ground, without a shadow of a doubt. And Dres were the greatest danger. A knee-jerk reaction, a kill order sent at… say, slights endured by the Dunmer population of Windhelm… Potema suppressed a grimace. A _successful_ assassination attempt on the Jarl would be as dangerous as a botched one in this situation. The connection to the Dark Elves would be made sooner or later and her people residing in Skyrim would pay for it in blood, before wrathful Stormcloaks would turn their eyes to the border with northern Morrowind once more.

Potema made a mental note to have all Dres correspondence with Skyrim much more thoroughly intercepted. After a second of pondering, she added Sadras to the measure as well. The youngest of the Great Houses was loyal to the First Councilor in its dealings. It had been Potema’s vote that had been the final approval for the dissolution of House Hlaalu, its lands and estates and monetary assets seized and redistributed. Yet gratitude could too easily bleed into entitlement, then fester into resentment and plots in the dark. No, taking Sadras for granted, even after all these years, was the decision of someone waiting to be stabbed between the ribs.

_‘Look at you’,_ she thought, fingers tightening on Trueflame’s curved hilt, Moon-and-Star grinding against the dark metal. _‘Planning and plotting and spinning webs like Mephala herself. There are times when you disgust even yourself. How right your sire was to name you after the cursed Wolf Queen!’_

And yet she would continue to plan and plot and work around obstacles or go straight _through them._ Because it needed to be done and there was no one else to get on with it. Some days, when the crushing weight of duty felt as if it would drive her straight into the earth, Potema wondered if there was anything left to her but necessity.

Skyrim, then. The province of her ancestors wasn’t lost. Not yet. Not if she had any say in it. The place already had its fill of agents and spies, rank-and-file soldiers, hot-heads, political agitators, naive revolutionaries, religious-fundamentalist types, pragmatists, stone-cold murderers. No, what Skyrim needed was something else. It needed a _Hero_ , a galvanizing presence, strong enough to counter Ulfric Stormcloak point for point. Someone to unite the province and deliver it back into the hands of the fools appointed by Cyrodiil. Even if they had allowed this mess to happen in the first place. The corners of Potema’s lips twitched. Might as well wish that the Numidium should fall right into her lap, ready for use. The two were as likely to happen.

_‘Without the Hero, there is no Event’,_ Zurin Arctus had posited so long ago. Potema was certain that his writings on the nature and power of prophecy were what had convinced Uriel VII to release her from prison and send her into the East. How… appropriate that she should make use of the same reasoning, two centuries later. Skyrim needed its Hero and she would supply one, even if it meant trawling all of her holdings for the suitable man or woman. Nordic blood flowed through her own veins from her unknown mother, giving Potema the light eyes, pale mien and red-gold hair of Skyrim’s children. Even if her height and features, name and upbringing, were entirely Cyrodiilic. But this was one task she could not set to accomplishing herself, even if under a different name and identity. Morrowind could not be that long without its First Councilor, not now. In any case, Potema was certain, down to her marrow, that what would come to pass in Skyrim was not hers to build. Just to instigate.

Tapping a primal sort of rhythm with her fingertips on the bannister, Potema turned her thoughts to Elisif the Fair. Little more than a girl, forced into calling herself Jarl after her husband’s ignominious end. Not strong enough to hold on to Solitude even with the help of competent advisers and the support of the Ninth Legion. No, Elisif had not the mettle to be High Queen of Skyrim and Stormcloak knew it as well as Potema did. Perhaps he fancied taking her to wife, to solidify his claim in the face of both the Moot and the common people. By all accounts, the girl was loyal to her dead love, yet much could change. Particularly if she ever found herself with a proverbial sword to her throat, Solitude surrounded on all sides. Potema had met Elisif only once, during her most recent state visit to the Court of Solitude. The Nerevarine hadn't been much impressed.

Torygg had been, in many ways, as young and inexperienced as his lady-wife. At the end of the talks, Potema had drawn the High King of Skyrim to the side, pretending to be charmed by her host. Careful of prying eyes, she’d revealed the golden coin in her hand, marked and blessed with the power of Talos the Divine. The very same coin that had been pressed into her palm at Ghostgate, as she’d met the face of an old soldier and known herself to be in the presence of divinity. Torygg had been surprised to find a fellow devotee of Talos in the First Councilor of Morrowind -- of all people! -- and Potema had taken the time to counsel the young High King against rash thought and even more rash action. The Thalmor and their foul grasping for the divine would fall. Yet it would not be a thing done by fragmented nations hurling their best and brightest to die against Altmer steel and magic. At the time, it had seemed to work, but Ulfric Stormcloak had still managed to worm his way into Torygg’s trust.

And now the fool boy was dead for it, his land splitting itself apart.

Potema couldn’t help but be impressed by Stormcloak’s shrewdness. It was a masterstroke, basing his uprising on the bitter resentment the Nords felt toward the White-Gold Concordat and the once religiously tolerant Empire turning back on its fundamental principles. Had the Jarl of Windhelm instead made this rebellion about the Empire’s taxation policies or his nationalistic, Nord-centric views... He would have gotten far less sympathy in plenty of quarters. As things stood, even many who considered him a threat to peace and stability couldn’t help but find his cause an understandable one. Potema herself sympathized and agreed with Stormcloak’s theological concerns. Yet that would not stop her from contributing to the man’s crushing defeat and ignoble death. The secret worship of Talos had to be balanced at all times with maintaining a strong, unbreakable front before the Aldmeri Dominion. Far too many failed to put long-term plans into practice, both in Skyrim and here on the Grand Council itself, where short-sighted policies often ruled the day.

“Do any of you”, she asked, voice so low that her guards had to strain their ears to hear, “know how one goes about killing a God?”

For a moment there was silence. This was something the Nerevarine had not taught them.

“To kill a God, one must kill belief”, Monette answered, her voice gathering strength as Potema nodded in her direction.

“This is truth. The death of a God may not be achieved even with the slaughter of their last adherent, so long as even a memory of them lingers on. If you seek to kill a God, you must unmake them, unbind them by stamping out every last trace of their existence from every pantheon in the world.”

Which was what the Thalmor sought to do. It was all a masterfully crafted plan, methodical and precise in its execution. Destroy the world as they all knew it by breaking the Towers, unmaking the God of Man and in the end, quite likely unmaking the race of Men itself. How much hate the Thalmor must harbour for their bodies of flesh and sinew, to seek complete destruction for the sake of divinity! And hadn’t such been the goal of Tonal Architect Kagrenac, behind her old friend’s back? Ascension to divinity by pure logic, mathematics, engineering. The greatest irony was that it had lead to the disappearance of an entire people. Would that the same fate was visited on the Thalmor and their ceaseless weeping for lost Godhood!

No. The s'wits would not succeed. Not as long as a single other soul drew breath in defiance. This was her greatest success with the Ashen Vanguard. Their military prowess was bested only by their religious dedication. And such was saying something, among a people renowned for their piety. In them and the scions of the Great Houses, all taught and trained among the Vanguard, Potema saw the future of Resdayn. And it was a future built on theological syncretism in the best tradition of the old Septim Empire. A curious, yet sturdy melange of ancient, almost unchanging ancestor worship and fealty to Azura, Boethiah and Mephala. And on top of it, on the part of Western-looking Dunmer such as the elite of House Sadras, service to the Nine Divines, given local flavour and character. Her most difficult achievement and the one responsible for all the repeated assassination attempts. And it had all started when wide-eyed Dunmer youths had first sought Potema for advice and religious instruction, after mighty Akatosh himself had come in all of his blazing glory above the Imperial City.

Almost as silent as shadows, the rest of the Ashen Vanguard contingent returned, having found no further threat. They were followed by robed and liveried servants, all of whom made sweeping bows in the Nerevarine’s presence. None of the dark-faced Dunmer men and women even flinched at the task of removing the bodies and cleaning up the blood. It was, Potema counted, the thirty-sixth assassination attempt this year. Perhaps the thirty-seventh would prove more eventful and entertaining.

Yet her amused speculation was interrupted by the arrival of an Ashlander woman hot on the heels of the guards and servants. Colourful beads and feathers shimmered in her hair, chitin armour resplendent with carved symbols for all the enemies she had slain in battle. Like the Ashen Vanguard, the woman saluted with fist over heart, intricate braids swaying with the motion. It was something in the warrior’s grim, shadow-rimmed eyes that made Potema know what she would hear, even before the accursed words came out. Like a knife taken to what was left of her beating heart.

“Farseer and Nerevarine, to whose wisdom we all submit ourselves. I am Yaras-Tul, Clanholder of the Ash-Walkers. The great Ashkhan, may his name and honour live on forever, has drawn his last breath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baan Malur = Blacklight in the Dunmeris language


	2. part the second

**4E 201, Ash** **lander** **Grand Camp, north of Kogo Tel, western Morrowind**

 

The writer Publius Justianus Gallus had, in what was later considered to be a bad move, compared Ashlander funereal rites with _‘the amorous cries of Suthay-raht Khajiit, under the light of the moons.’_ The man had been trying for a poetic approach, yet such had been hardly appreciated by the subjects of his writing. Potema expected that the popular author would never show his face among a gathering of the Velothi ever again, not if he valued the wholeness of his hide. Oh, he wouldn’t be killed, of course not. The injunctions against dishonourably slaying the weak and the defenceless held as strongly as ever. Yet a flogging wouldn’t be out of the question, she imagined. Particularly not if the conservative Clanholders requested it. Most would be satisfied by some grueling work for the good of the tribe.

For her part, Potema had never found the keening wails and cries unpleasant or disturbing. There was a stark, violent beauty to them, much like the Ashlands themselves. If she closed her eyes, the tens of thousands of voices ululating as one would carry her as surely as the wings of memory to the ash wastes, where sunlight was mercilessly cold and gray and the winds carried with them death as often as salvation. Centuries ago, in a different life, it had been funereal cries which had met her very first entrance into Urshilaku Camp. The tribesmen had been mourning the death of one of their hunters… but they might as well have mourned _her_ arrival instead, for all the good the Nerevarine had ultimately done them. There was a pitch-perfect appropriateness to that, her greatest supporters in those early days meeting her with screaming and tearing of hair and clothes.

Holding in a sigh, Potema raked her fingers through shoulder-length, red-gold hair, great streaks of silver extending from the temples. It was all over and done, with no further point to regrets. Yet that did little to rein in her traitor conscience. Particularly now, when she was at the heart of the largest Ashlander gathering in Morrowind, standing next to the inert, lifeless body of the great Ashkhan who had united all tribes under his name. The very same man who had been her friend, her lover, her husband.

Ancient Velothi custom fully gave Potema the right to scream and roar her grief now. None would judge her as lesser for it. Not when the entire tribe was wailing to the stars, cheeks ritually smeared with ash, that the tears these grim people so rarely allowed themselves might be all the more visible. Yet Potema found that she could not do so. Never mind ripping at hair and clothes, as the others were doing right then, both men and women baring their chests and beating their breast with their palms. She could not muster even something as lowly as tears, for all that her eyes felt swollen and painful.

It would not do to sully Julan’s honour and memory by being seen with dry cheeks. Hence why she had quietly retreated into the yurt where his prone body lay, soon to be embalmed.

‘ _Mourn! Did he mean so very little to you that you cannot let go of your control even now? Mourn! Mourn, damn you to the flaming pits of Oblivion, you fatherless wretch of a n’wah!’_

Yet the tears would not come, no matter how ferociously Potema raged at herself. Perhaps she had wept so much for the suffering of her people in those hellish days of war and death and ash that whatever inner wellspring gave birth to tears had simply run out. Or perhaps she had beaten the ability to weep right out of herself, over centuries of keeping this land whole. Whatever the reason, it left Potema feeling barren and wholly inadequate, amidst this public frenzy of emotion.

Soft rustling of cloth announced movement and a dark hand reached inside through the yurt flap, depositing a tray on the rug. The hand was withdrawn immediately, its owner never drawing back the flap to even glance inside. Potema felt something like a spark of warmth stirring in her clenched insides, even as the tent’s only other living occupant got up with a shifting of crimson robes and reached for the tray. It was a simple gift to the Nerevarine, given in anonymity and with absolute discretion. None of the Ashlanders would shame Potema by looking in the yurt and seeing her tear-less face, so all offerings would be carefully left at the entrance.

“I do not deserve the love of these people, heart-brother.”

On the other side of the Ashkhan’s body, the Honourable Serjo Varvur Sarethi, Archmaster of Great House Redoran and Second Councilor of Morrowind, was carefully settling himself back down on the colourful rug. Another might have dropped the tray outright at such terrible words out of the Nerevarine’s mouth. Varvur merely set the thing down, neatly sorting its contents – roasted balls of scrib jelly wrapped in fire-petals and a small, glazed earthenware jug. Potema knew well what it contained. The intoxicant known as baan-molkhun _,_ _‘blackened blood of the land’_ in the Western tongue. Stronger than even century-old sujamma, with a cloying, wretched bitterness that invariably left the imbiber reeling. Brewed from the fermented fluids of shalk and liberally mixed with windblown ash, it was the only acceptable drink in the presence of the dead. Potema knew no Westerner who could drink baan-molkhun without retching violently. Even among the House Dunmer, few could stomach it.

“Deserved or undeserved, it is freely offered”, Varvur countered quietly, meeting her eyes in the dim lamplight. “You aren’t one to deny your people their greatest source of comfort, heart-sister.”

The words might have stirred laughter on her part, even if a rather grim sort. But such would be unseemly now – and in any case, Potema suspected that laughter was as far from her as tears were.

“A poor choice they’ve made in me, Varvur. A very poor bargain as well.”

No one else, among the living or dead, would ever hear such words from her. In all things, it was paramount that the First Councilor show strength, always. Any visible signs of doubt or fear or unwillingness to act would be seized upon immediately by her enemies. And the people deserved to see firmness in the hand that ruled them, as often as they deserved understanding and compassion. It would not do to have those Potema was sworn to guide and protect sleep unwell at night because they had reason to doubt her ability to rule. No one had ever been allowed to see her fracture lines, like cracks in the soil after centuries of drought… save for Varvur Sarethi and the man now lying dead between them.

“Nowhere near as poor as the alternatives. Would you have seen them the gibbering slaves of Dagoth Ur’s lunacy?”

The smile that flickered over Potema’s lips was more a ferocious baring of teeth, rather than anything else.

“No. Not in the way my old friend Voryn desired. But if the Heart could have been preserved, perhaps...”

It was a thought – blacker than the Blight itself – that came to her, at times. Particularly when Potema had to stare the horror of loss full in the face. It mattered not how harshly she told herself that hoping for different choices was a futile thing, done only by the weak-willed and by philosophers with their heads in the clouds. Not when her much-loved husband was lying dead in front of her.

‘ _Take what you can and pay for it later.’_

If she’d had the time and the foresight, Potema could have used her forces for much more than overwhelming the defences of the Crater Citadels and striking at the core of Dagoth Ur’s sanctum. It would have taken more magicka and _almost_ more lives than Vvardenfell’s armies could have supplied at the time… yet she was now certain that Dagoth Ur _could_ have been contained long enough for her to learn the Heart of Lorkhan. Long enough to decipher at least a sliver of Kagrenac’s blasphemous engineering and claim a portion of its power. Enough to take command of Akulakhan and rein in Voryn Dagoth’s other mad creations. What Prince of Oblivion, what foreign invasion, could’ve had even a _prayer_ of a chance when faced with such strength? With Akulakhan in her hands, Mehrunes Dagon himself could have been gripped by the throat and flung back into the rancid pit he had crawled out of. That thrice-accursed rock would have never struck Vivec. Julan would still be alive and healthy, instead of dead by the poisoned air that had burned his lungs away. The An-Xileel would have found only annihilation in their attempted invasion. The Thalmor wouldn’t have been permitted to rise. Martin Septim, that brave, brave, so very _brave_ and foolish and noble boy, would have lived to take his rightful place, restoring the line of Talos Dragonborn. And even if he had died, the Stormcrown Interregnum and its depredations would have ended quickly, for with the Heart in her grasp, it would have been only a matter of firm steps to the Ruby Thro–

 _No._ _**No** _ _._

With teeth grinding against each other, Potema set about ruthlessly uprooting and crushing each and every blasphemous thought, pounding it into the dust. This was more than useless speculation. This was vile, _wretched_ sin, the very same deed committed by the Tribunal and the Dwemer. The very same that had brought down the fires of the gods upon her people. The profane had no business unmaking the sacred, just to elevate itself in the image of what it was befouling. The path to divinity was a gauntlet of tears and suffering and hardship that all would undertake purely by virtue of Mundus and mortality, so that their eyes _might_ be opened at the end. Such was the truth she had understood after emerging from the ruins of Dagoth Ur’s citadel, covered with the blood of the one she had once called _‘brother.’_ Desires for the Heart’s power were noxious things, as worthy of contempt and condemnation as the mad scramblings of the Thalmor.

Varvur had moved from his place and one of his hands was on her left shoulder, even as he quietly thrust the glazed jug at Potema. It had been the look on her face that had made him move so fast, Potema was absolutely certain of that. Nodding in gratitude, she swung her head back, pouring the foul liquor into her mouth. Not even bothering to grimace at the taste and the resin-like consistency of the ash, Potema drank all of it in one go. As was traditionally done. The thing burned and scraped her insides all the way down, yet she was thankful for the pain. It allowed her focus and clarity of thought.

“You wouldn’t have done such a thing. I am certain of very little these days. But I am certain of this, as was my father before me.”

“Then you have far more faith in me than I do, Varvur. Far more faith indeed.”

Away from prying eyes, Potema allowed herself to lean some of her weight against him. In the flickering light, Varvur’s features seemed a thing of nightmares, one half of his face nothing more than a ghastly ruin of warped and melted skin, stretched over bone. Yet Potema had never looked upon it with revulsion or pity, for that half of him was a battle-trophy won when a Dremora’s foul magic had struck him in the face. Varvur hadn’t allowed agony to overpower him and had dispatched the creature back to Oblivion, when the two of them and a ragtag remnant of Redoran’s fighting force had led nearly five thousand of Ald-ruhn’s survivors in a desperate retreat across the Ashlands.

And yet, even with the mark of his prowess burned into his skin for all to see, there were times when her heart-brother looked so much like his sire – the Honourable Serjo Athyn Sarethi, as beloved to her as a father – that it was almost unbearable for the Nerevarine to gaze at him.

“Do you know what is the most insidious danger in this world, Varvur?” Potema spoke softly, in a low whisper, fingers idly playing with an unravelling strand at the cuff of her seven-layer ceremonial robes. “It is a person who desires power for noble purposes. Many will rise against the blatantly wicked and craven, as the story of my namesake amply shows. The very same will support one of noble deed and intention, yet who seeks similar ends.”

Varvur’s grip on her shoulder tightened to the point of pain, a shadow passing over his ruined face. “Whoever named you after Potema Septim did an evil thing, heart-sister. I wouldn’t have condemned even the lowest fetcher to carry such a name, like an ill-omen tied round the neck.”

Potema’s smile was a touch less fierce this time, albeit still far from a thing of mirth. “Oh, I did it to myself. The Brothers and Sisters at the Bruma Cathedral were very sensitive to ill-omens. Very sensitive indeed. Most of us unwanted bastards in the orphanage there had no names of our own. So the old Archpriest, may his spirit rest lightly, took it upon himself to name us. I was the exception. Back when they came upon me on the steps, newborn and near death in the winter, the Brothers also found a note from my unknown father, instructing them that my name was to be _‘Potema’_ and never any other.”

“They heeded that request? From the _s’wit_ who cast you aside, instead of doing his duty and acknowledging you properly? Forgive the offence, heart-sister, but your West kin are as foolish and honourless as ever.”

Varvur’s anger on her behalf softened Potema’s features. “Speaking truth is no offence to me, Varvur. The Brothers acted as you would have and refused to call me such. The Archpriest, in his wisdom, baptised me Augusta – and a more auspicious name one couldn’t have hoped to ever find. Oh yes, they still felt enough of a duty to my sire’s one wish, so in all official records, I was _‘Augusta_ _Potema_ _’._ Yet none at the Chapel ever addressed me as the Wolf Queen.”

“And here you are, known by her name regardless.”

“Yes. Here I am. My father got the last laugh, I imagine. You see, I was a spirited girl when I started growing up. Far too spirited, some would have said, particularly the Archpriest, may his ashes be forever blessed. It didn’t sit well with me that one of my names wasn’t to be acknowledged at all, not when I had so very little of my own to begin with. Not when it was the one thing my father had seen fit to give me.”

“So you went against their wishes.” There was no hint of surprise in Varvur Sarethi’s words. He knew her too intimately.

“I did, until it drove all of them to utter distraction. Every time I called myself Potema, I was sent to scrub pots in the kitchen. Or clean the fireplaces. Or polish the floorstones until they shined. I did all the Brothers and Sisters asked, but it only hardened my resolve, instead of breaking it. They could only punish me so much, you understand. And in any case, a punishment ceases to be one if you do not view it as such.”

Varvur shook his head. “Only you would have fought for the right to bear the Wolf Queen’s name.”

“Only me.” There was a low, wistful sort of fondness in Potema’s voice, to match the warmth in her chest, at the old memories. “The Archpriest had to admit defeat, but by then I was already all of seventeen summers and not keen on entering the religious service or being married off to some dull-witted farmer and living the life of a country goodwife. After he relented, I packed my belongings and ran off to enroll in the Legions. As I said, I was a stubborn, thick-headed sort of girl.”

“And very little has changed in that regard, heart-sister, if I’m to go by what happens whenever I have to vote against your wishes in the Council.”

Potema made a dry little sound in her throat. “Hush, now. You get your way plenty of times.”

“I do, but that does not make you less of a challenging opponent when you want to be. Not that I would dishonour the Redoran by wishing for anything else.” A smile flickered on Varvur’s features as well, making his broken face all the more fearsome. To Potema, that warrior’s grin was beautiful, heart swelling with pride and affection whenever she saw it. How much he had grown from that broken, aimlessly angry youth she had saved from the bowels of Bolvyn Venim’s manor!

Very few could lift the First Councilor’s dark moods these days and Varvur Sarethi was one among this rare breed. Perhaps what most failed to understand was that Potema Augusta Varro sometimes needed less… or maybe _more_ than unquestioning, overawed devotion. She had built the Ashen Vanguard with her own hand and that was their strength, as well as their weakness. They were wholly her creatures, never to hesitate, question or doubt, an extension of the Nerevarine’s implacable will. Yet there were moments when Potema needed something else entirely – someone who could see the person behind the power and image and myth, as flawed and as prone to self-doubt as any living thing of Mundus. Someone who could be unflinchingly honest even in the face of her displeasure and her towering anger and, as Julan used to say, _‘keep_ _your_ _head from swelling far too much.’_

…Would have _Ayem_ fallen so far, if she’d had the benefit of such people close to her heart? It was one of the questions Potema couldn’t answer. Almost anything to do with Almalexia was still a mire of conflicting, ferocious emotions. One particularly scrib-brained, newly-minted member of the Grand Council had gotten the very worst of her temper once, when he’d thought to curry favour with Potema by calling her _‘Ama Resdayn.’_ To her face. The man had been bodily pitched out of the First Councilor’s private chambers by the First Councilor herself, sliding along the floor for almost fifty hand-spans before coming to a stop. Later, Potema had found out that the rest of the Grand Council had known of the fool’s intentions. It had involved plenty of wincing, surreptitious smirks and the setting up of a generous betting pool, measuring the odds of the hapless fetcher flying out the door or the window.

Banishing the old memories of Ayem, Potema leaned back slightly, legs still folded underneath herself. Aside for talk meant to support her through this, Varvur would not do something as crass as discuss concrete Council politics, not when they were both holding vigil over her husband’s lifeless body. Yet that wouldn’t keep politics from intruding into _her_ thoughts – not even a funeral could stop that, not even for one as beloved as her Julan. He would laugh at Potema, surely, in that way that always crinkled his nose, joking that it was _‘just like_ _you_ _to overthink things at the worst times.’_ Yet Morrowind’s necessities would not disappear just so her feelings could be spared. Grief was, in many ways, a wonderful luxury that a netchiman’s wife could indulge in. Not a head of state.

The fate of Skyrim’s governance was still too much of an unknown. Dres and Indoril hardliners were threatening to spark another war with the Argonians down on the Deshaan Defense Line. Hlaalu remnants in eastern Cyrodiil were constantly weaving their plots and schemes. A few notable Telvanni mage-lords, that old bastard Neloth front and centre, still did little to enforce the Council’s will in their holdings. A group of theological radicals insisting on worshipping her as a Saint and a God-King were giving the Archcanon constant headaches, for all Potema had grimly insisted that no living person should ever be Canonized. The Tribunal were proof enough as to where _that_ lead.

And then there was Solstheim.

‘ _Sheogorath’s balls, but that place is a madhouse! Between the mortality rate among the guards, constant discrepancies in shipping manifests and the attempts on Lleril Morvayn’s life, it’s a miracle Raven Rock is still holding on. Lleril is to thank for that, bless him, he’s keeping the place together with spit, rope and boot polish! He needs more funds from the Treasury. And a visit from the First Councilor. Yes… as soon as I am done with all of this, I can sail to Solstheim. It would do Councilor Morvayn and the people good to see and talk to me. Even if I cannot resolve everything in just a few days, it will help the people of Raven Rock to know they haven’t been forgotten.’_

No sooner had the thoughts coalesced in her head that Potema nearly winced at them. As soon as she was done with all of this…? Was _that_ all her deceased husband stood for now – another wearying task she would cross off the list, with the same ease as any other? Her enemies often described her as a heartless, pitiless she-wolf, as cold as the wastes of ancient Atmora. In moments such as these, Potema thought they had the right of it.

_Julan._

Slowly, carefully, Potema reached out with one hand, tenderly touching his gray, cold cheek. Her eyes were hurting worse than ever, yet they remained resolutely dry. Julan’s death would prove an opportunity for many. She could already see the plots being spun in the capital, now that the First Councilor was a widow. Oh, no one would be foolish enough to approach her in the immediate future. They would wait the passing of years, decades perhaps, for the Nerevarine’s love of her husband had been well-known and undeniable. But the Dunmer were as long-lived as they were cunning and there would come a time when worthy individuals, culled out of the Great Houses in cutthroat competition, would come to her, each discreetly presenting his or her suit. All would be fine, admirable partners, chosen in accordance with her presumed tastes.

The thought of the entire charade made Potema want to howl.

Calloused fingers stroked Julan’s cheek and gently swept aside a lock of his hair, still as raven-dark as the day she had met him, on the path to Ghostgate. Carefully, Potema began to think it all through. Yes… she would act pre-emptively and leave all of the Great Houses with their eyes in the sun. Finding some inoffensive man with acceptable rank, but little political skill to speak of, for a union in-name-only, seemed like the safest course. Far easier would be to just throw caution to the wind and in the future claim any lover she wished… yet that would bring unacceptable risk. Potema well remembered, from her days as Legate of the Seventh Legion in Sentinel, what it had meant for the Queen’s sexual indiscretions to become a matter of public scandal. No, a ruler’s intimate conduct had to be above reproach, always. Easily did it become a lethal weapon. As it was, too many among the Great Houses had spent years grumbling and frowning darkly at the Nerevarine’s marriage to _‘one of those savages.’_ Potema could have easily crushed the mutterings along with the mutterers, but that was the way of knuckle-dragging brutes like that _wretch_ Eddar Olin, may the Daedra toy with his miserable soul forever! Instead, she had presented her marriage as the most beneficial match for Morrowind – a symbolic and literal bridge between the House Dunmer and their nomadic brothers and sisters, both equally her people, worthy of love and respect. The tribes had been exultant, for Nerevar Moon-and-Star was fulfilling the ancient oath and honouring their ways, as had been foretold. As for the Great Houses… well, they hadn’t been given much of a choice in the matter. Particularly not after Ashlander and House Dunmer had fought side-by-side at Red Mountain, during the Oblivion Crisis and the war with Black Marsh.

“You are as cunning and crafty as mighty Boethiah when you wish to be, heart-sister”, Varvur murmured quietly, pulling Potema out of her ruminations. He’d threaded the fingers of his right hand through her own, likely suspecting some of the things going through her head. “But now is not the time. You were telling me about the more obscure Ashlander rites, once. Would you remind me why they scream so much?”

As if on cue, one ear-splitting shriek rang out very close to the tent, making the Archmaster of House Redoran wince, as much as he tried to hide his reaction. Potema smiled, relaxing fully against him, blessing Varvur Sarethi and his impeccable sense of timing. Were they not sworn to each other as siblings and were her close relationship to the Redoran not _already_ a problem on the Council… But no, that was another line of completely useless thinking. Best not to even dwell upon it.

“My old friend Plitinius Mero once put it far better than I ever could.” The man’s name still brought a stab of pain with it, yet Potema endured it. So many had died of her mistakes that one single name was no longer enough to drive the Nerevarine to her knees. “He wrote that among the Velothi, ceremonial _‘madness’_ at the death and birth of a loved one acts as a… release valve, of sorts. You remember the Dwemer Constructs I showed you, in the depths of Mournhold? Many of them were powered by steam as much as by magical matrices. Destroying one sometimes involved plugging the release valves and letting the steam’s pressure rise to an explosion. In many ways, this is the same thing. A social release valve for these people, who are by necessity even more stoic and closed-off than their House kin. It would destroy them to always hold everything in as they do, so they’ve built rituals and ceremonies that allow them release without fear of shaming themselves in front of the ancestors.”

“And this happens only during births and funerals?” For all that the two halves of Morrowind had begun learning rapprochement under her rule, the Ashlanders were still notoriously private with their most sacred rituals. Varvur Sarethi had been permitted attendance only by virtue of being the Farseer’s sworn-sibling and a loyal friend of the Ashkhan.

“Yes. Well... in Velothi custom, it is common to see the marriage bed as a similar place of unburdening and release. There are no lies or secrets allowed there.”

“Would that we of the Great Houses had such a tradition!”

Potema shook her head, a thread of dry amusement in her voice. “I fear the fall of the Houses themselves, were that the case. Can you imagine it, all those ambitious House Cousins no longer able to plot behind the backs of their own families! There is a similar tradition in Skyrim, you know. It did very little to stop that people from splintering as it did, husband against wife, sibling against sibling.”

Even now, almost two weeks after the High King’s death, Skyrim was still a dangerous subject, something that Varvur knew all too well. Quickly, he shifted talk away from the civil war raging in that province, another problem for which Potema sought an impossible solution. “I have never attended a Nord funeral. Do your fair kinsmen scream as well?”

“They chant for hours. Long, involved, soulful chants, lauding the dead and their glorious deeds of battle, so they may reach Sovengarde, if they are worthy of such. The Nords burn their dead, in the same way Dunmer House-kin do. But unlike the Dunmer, they believe that passage into the after isn’t done by mixing the ashes with the soil. Instead, the ash of the burning pyre must flow away on the winds of a cold, clear day. _‘Born we are of the sky and to the sky we always return.’”_

Varvur nodded, carefully picking up one of the jelly rolls on the plate and placing it in his mouth with an elegant, surprisingly delicate motion for one who had been taught to expertly wield a sword even before he had been all of fifteen summers.

“Will you not chant for Julan, then, heart-sister?”

“No. Not because he had no blood of Skyrim”, Potema added when Varvur raised a surprised eyebrow. “But because he asked me not to. He hated the idea of a grim, stately, overly ceremonial funeral, my Julan, even if he could never bring himself to tell this to the people he ruled over. But he had long years to plan for this and he always asked that I forget epic tales and speak of other things instead.”

“And what would those things be?”

“The day he devastated the Halfway Tavern’s common room, for one. I had a handsome rogue of a Dunmer hot on my heels back then, keen on fulfilling my every whim. And Julan wouldn’t stand long for that, of course. I could have stepped in and diffused the situation, but it was… appealing to have two handsome young men fight it out for my sake. Call it a girlish idiocy that I chose to indulge in, even though I was past my prime.”

“Julan won, naturally.”

“He did, but at a price. Nels and Julan had surrendered their weapons at the door, so they were left with only jugs of sujamma smashed over the head and flying plates and blunt cutlery for stabbing and quick fists. My husband won, but it was a near thing and in the end they both ended up before the healer in Fort Pelagiad, covered in bruises and ale and with pottery shards that needed plucking out.”

Varvur’s grin widened even more, eyes shining as much as Potema’s own. But before he could say anything about the outrageous tale, the yurt flap was carefully drawn to the side and two figures entered the dimly-lit space – one bent low, with eyes fastened to the floor, the other walking proudly. Ashibaal she recognized instantly, one of the Ashen Vanguard who had insisted on accompanying her here, for all that Potema had nothing to fear among the Ashlanders. Ever mindful of his origins, the hard-faced Dunmer was keeping his eyes firmly away from her tear-free face, every line in his body speaking of displeasure and barely-contained disgust at needing to intrude.

“I am shamed in your eyes and those of the ancestors for interrupting your vigil, Honoured One”, he began, staring hard at the rug-covered floor. “Yet it could not wait. This… messenger comes with urgent news from the south.”

Ashibaal’s flinty tone held nothing but contempt for the messenger in question – and Potema could easily guess why. Dwarfing the wiry Dunmer, a tall, hulking Orc woman was doing her best not to brush the top of the yurt with her clean-shaven head. And failing rather miserably. Shifting from foot to foot and looking openly and shamelessly at everything, her behaviour was an affront to every Velothi funereal tradition. When the woman’s eyes landed on her face, Potema was close to coldly ordering the Orsimer to avert her gaze, lest her offensive gawking earn a solid flogging. Yet the words died even before they could reach her lips.

‘ _By Talos, those eyes!’_

Potema had seen their like once before, yet not on the face of an Orc. Those eyes burned fiercely golden, as if set alight by some smouldering inner sun that not even all the hardships and all the bitterness in the mortal world could ever hope to extinguish. They spoke to her of power ancient even when the Earth-Bones were settling themselves into the shape of Nirn, of power that would one day shake the very foundations of the world. Yes, Potema had seen such eyes before – centuries in the past, when she had looked in the face of Mankind’s youngest God and he had breathed a spark of his blessing upon her, in the shape of a small, golden coin. Only iron-willed self-control kept her fingers from instinctively jerking to that coin now, tucked safely in the heavy sash of her robes.

To think that a child of Malacath could have a look that would remind her of _Talos Dragonborn!_

“You bear no burden toward me or the ancestors for doing your sworn duty, Ashibaal.” Better to take a firm rein of things. Setting aside all questions at such a strange, unsettling creature, Potema kept her voice sharp and crisp. She refused to allow any hint of turmoil to show on her face, meeting the Orc woman’s golden gaze with a cold, gray one. “News of the Dres rebels and their machinations is always welcome. Speak, daughter of Orsinium. I would hear what words you have for me.”

The Orc woman smiled – if such a thing could be called a smile, nothing but stained, yellow teeth, bared in a wide, eager, almost mocking expression. So, not one to deal well with authority. What business did she have being an official messenger, then?

“The Dark Elves that call themselves true sons and daughters of this ash-choked land prepare secretly for war with Black Marsh”, she began, voice low, yet oddly melodious for such a brute-faced woman. She spoke in a lilting way that reminded Potema of High Rock all at once, yet not quite. There were the harsher notes of Skyrim’s dialect in there as well. The Reach, perhaps? “They have smuggled in weapons from Cyrodiil and intend to strike at the coming of the new moons, with or without your blessing. Such is the message I was tasked to bring. A foolhardy thing. Those An-Xileel fellows will make sausages of them. Or perhaps you will. I have heard how you deal with disobedience, Wolf Queen of Morrowind. It’s said you made war-drums out of the skin of a general who displeased you.”

Varvur stiffened instantly at the mockery, rage flickering through his lone crimson eye. Ashibaal looked just as tense, still half-bent toward the floor, yet resting on his toes, ready to spring into violent, murderous motion at the slightest sign on Potema’s part. She settled them both down with a subtle gesture of the fingers. Interesting. The Orc was either mad or just as foolhardy at the idiots who thought that womanly grief would dull her wits enough to go to war with Argonia all over again, at great cost and for utterly indefensible lands.

“Many things are said about me by those who know little.” Potema kept her voice calm and cold, back straight, shoulders held to a firm line. “You would do well to focus more on your duties and less on idle gossip, woman.”

The flat-faced Orc only smiled even more broadly, golden eyes crinkling at the corners. “That is precisely what I’ve come for. My duty.”

And before anyone else could even blink, she moved as blurred lighting over water, too fast for the eye to even track. Ashibaal was instantly down, with the handle of a dagger stuck in his chest – a fatal thrust to the heart, Potema’s quick mind was able to instantly deduce, even as her body needed time to catch up. By the time she was on her feet and jumping back, dragging the heavy robes after her and cursing the Velothi injunctions against carrying weapons at funerals, Varvur was down as well, collapsing in a fine spray of blood. He had launched himself up and tried to place his unarmed body between Potema and the assassin. She could feel his warm blood spattering all over her face and robes, yet the Nerevarine refused to look down, refused to let herself even _think_ of what all that blood meant.

All that mattered, all that existed in the world was the Orc woman before her, steel sword held in an experienced, fluid grip, smile just as mocking as before. Golden, dragon-like eyes shining with the certainty of Potema’s death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation note:** _‘Ama Resdayn’_ translates from Dunmeris as _‘Mother of Resdayn/Morrowind’_ , one of the goddess Almalexia’s titles. Which would explain Potema’s reaction to being called such.


End file.
